


Animal

by jerseydevious



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Be Like Babs, Depression, Don't Be Like Jason, F/M, Past Traumatic Brain Injury, Suicidal Thoughts, guess who in the comics just went through a poorly handled TBI, so guess what a huge complication in TBI recoveries is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:54:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23060533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jerseydevious/pseuds/jerseydevious
Summary: After KGBeast shoots Dick in the head, Dick is struggling to recover.
Relationships: Barbara Gordon/Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd
Comments: 71
Kudos: 273
Collections: Batfam, Dick Grayson Whump





	Animal

**Author's Note:**

> Hey. Pay attention to the tags. Listen to them. This is a Mean Fic, Where I Do Mean Things To Dick. This'll be a two parter because I'm NOT gonna write something this mean and not have Dick cry on Bruce, that's just like, antithetical to everything I do. 
> 
> Also, warning, this Jason is significantly meaner than I usually write him. This Jason is kind of a cross between Susie Homemaker and a Bitch, and I kind of love him.

The last person Jason was expecting when his doorbell buzzed was Dick Grayson with a hooded, trapped expression—in all honesty he was expecting Horace, his HVAC guy. Jason’s hot water heater had blown the night before, and he’d made a frantic call to Horace, and Horace had promised to be out by the morning. But when Jason pulled open the door it was Dick Grayson, although it took Jason a minute to recognize it was Dick, which ruined his exciting morning plans of having his hot water heater replaced, and frustrated him by virtue of reminding him Dick Grayson existed at all.

“I can’t believe you live in a townhouse,” Dick said. His voice was a croak. Jason had to take a minute to pick apart the noise and sort out what Dick had actually said, it was so quiet. “You’re the drug kingpin of Gotham City and you live in a pastel yellow townhouse next to the park.”

“You could say the drug kingpin thing a little louder, couldn’t you, I don’t think the neighbors heard you,” Jason growled. "Which, actually, I hope they do, they have four kids and all they do is shout at each other." He stood aside and held the door open and Dick shuffled in—none of his usual grace, just a despondent slouch that ended in him awkwardly standing right in the middle of Jason’s foyer, twisting his head to look at Jason's beautifully done baby blue walls. 

Finally his eyes settled on the rug, a corded white number. “Good rug,” Dick said. His voice was still that annoying wheeze. It took Jason a full minute to comprehend that he'd just mindlessly let Dick Grayson, one of the most dangerous human combatants alive, into his house without much of a thought—but the man looked like shit, so maybe if he tried anything Jason could shoot him with the gun in his waistband and have someone chop up the corpse. The thought disgruntled him. Jason didn't care to analyze why. 

“I stole it from Bruce.”

This was a lie. Jason had gotten it at a flea market in Alabama when he had skipped town for a while, after he’d gotten a tip that Deathstroke was after his head. Eventually Jason had pushed a knife through Deathstroke’s stupid eyepatch in the Florida Everglades while the ‘gators watched, and it remained one of the weirder weeks of Jason’s weird life. He had picked up the rug back when he was deep underground, jumping from safehouse to safehouse to avoid Batman’s interference, before he’d settled on his nice little townhouse by the park, settled for Bruce occasionally coming to his doorstep to bitch and moan and  _ I miss you please come home. _ It was easier to ignore Bruce’s impassioned pleas, these days, because Jason had more important things, like his new hot water heater, to think about. He took good care of his house.

It was a lie carefully designed to get a rise out of Dick, which, when he did—unfortunately—cross paths with Nightwing, was one of his favorite things to do. It never ended well for Jason, because Dick was a beast in a match, and Jason might have strength on him, but he’d never make up for how much faster Dick was than him. But it was fun. Dick had a temper to him like a crown fire. All Jason had to do was mention Bruce, and Dick would hit him with that right cross, and they’d be off to the races—fascinating, always, to watch Dick work, to watch someone be so close to lethal but never quite there. 

Dick turned and looked at him. “Good for you,” he said, flatly. “I need a gun.”

Jason pulled the pistol out of his waistband and handed it to Dick. “Take it. I don't care much for it anyway. Now get out, I have plans." 

“You’re not concerned about me shooting you,” Dick said. His voice was still eerily flat.

“It would be cute of you to try,” Jason said. He shook the gun. “Take it, and get the hell out of my house. Frankly, you smell like both a gym and a liquor store, I don't want to know why because I don't care, and I’m going to have to shampoo this rug where you’re standing just to get the  _ you _ out of it, and I want you to leave.”

“You’re not even curious as to why I want a gun,” Dick said. The scar on the right side of his head from where he’d been shot recently was just visible through the clumps of greasy black hair. It was puckered and a pale pink and wicked-looking. The cape community had lost their minds when Nightwing went down for the count—always smooth, always reliable, better than Batman and Black Canary both, choking on a puddle of his own blood in the streets of Gotham. Jason had picked up the chatter, had picked up the panic, had paired it with the way the Titans and the League both seemed to close ranks and put on a brave face. Jason idly wondered what they would think of the pathetic animal in front of him, the one with the deadly intent to kill some poor fucker somewhere. Maybe Tarantula, Jason had heard the crazy bitch had tangled with Nightwing in the past—or was she dead already?

“I’m really hoping you’ll go murder dear old dad with it, and I would rather not ruin the surprise if you are,” Jason said, dryly. 

“Shut up,” Dick said, quietly. Tense, pulled taut like the fabric of a drum.

Jason grinned wolfishly.

A month ago, Bruce had slid a letter under Jason’s doorstep _ —I don’t think he’ll come to you, _ it began, and ended _ please tell me if anything comes up, and I love you. _ Bruce was a well-practiced liar, a manipulator without peer, because Jason didn’t immediately burn the letter. Sometimes he thought about the swoop of the words  _ I love you _ in Bruce’s loopy cursive and sometimes, on a bad day, his heart twinged. Jason knew they had to be desperate if they were asking Jason for help. The last time he'd seen Bruce in person, Jason had hit him so hard he'd broken the Batman's jaw. It was a moment Jason was proud of. 

Dick scrubbed at his beard. Weird, to see Dick with a beard, and an unkempt one—Dick preened like a bird, and Jason knew this because one time he had grabbed Dick by the hair and slammed his head into a brick wall and his glove had come away smelling like coconut oil.  _ Fucking gay ass motherfucker, _ Jason had hissed. 

“Why do you look so much like shit, anyway. You got shot in the head, not murdered.”

“Har har,” Dick said. He snatched the gun out of Jason’s suspended hand. “You’re still an asshole, you know that?”

Jason snickered. “It is actively my goal in life to be an asshole, especially to you.”

Dick tucked the gun into his waistband. “You just give these things out like candy, huh.”

“Only to you. I am seriously excited to witness Bruce’s reaction to your fall from grace, when you actually kill someone. He’ll be so heartbroken. I enjoy that immensely." 

He took the time to picture it—Bruce's righteous shock, his guilt. The image made his blood turn to ice. He didn't want to think about why. 

Dick swallowed. “I’ve already killed someone.”

“Doubt it.”

“I did. The Joker. Bruce resuscitated him. I thought—I thought he had killed Tim,” Dick said. His eyes were glassy. “And after you, and Barbara, I couldn’t—I killed him.”

Jason hummed. “God, I hate it when we have things in common that make me like you instead of hate you. Which is a new experience, because it’s never happened before.”

Dick laughed. It rattled in his chest. “I wanted to say,” he began, awkwardly, “and, uh, don’t take this the wrong way. I  _ do _ think you are an asshole. You have serious issues. But when you were a kid, I let what was going on between me and Bruce get in the way of being the brother that you needed. And that… that was a death sentence. It’s my fault. I’m sorry. I could’ve—should’ve—been better to you. And ever since you came back, I get so angry with you, because it’s—I failed you. I couldn’t stop failing you. I’m sorry. I’ll always be sorry. And I know that you think Bruce is the worst, and that he’s trying to manipulate you—and I’ve thought that about him, too, at my worst. But he’s not. He really does love you, and losing you… he’s never been the same. He misses you. Give him a chance. Let him prove that love to you.”

_ Couldn’t. _ Dick Grayson, standing on his flea market rug from Alabama, swimming in a gray sweatshirt and jeans even though it was a blazing ninety degrees outside, a scraggly beard and hair to his shoulders. But beneath that Jason would bet every dollar he had—and that was quite a few—that Dick was no less than forty pounds underweight, just based on the thinness of his shoulders and the way the tendons in his hands popped and swiveled like spider’s legs, and the sunken look of his eyes and the hollowness of his cheeks. His eyes weren’t just glassy—they were bloodshot and red-rimmed, the look of a man who had been sobbing his heart out not ten minutes before. That trapped look on his face, when Jason had answered the door. Nightwing, who had gotten shot in the head just months before—word on the street was, it had been KGBeast—who had undoubtedly undergone invasive, traumatic surgery to save his life—

Dick was at the door. His hand was on the knob. The pieces fit, and the ice in Jason's veins froze over again three times over. 

“Go in the living room,” Jason said, lowly, dangerously, “and sit down. Do not fucking move.”

Dick was perfectly still. “What are you on about?”

“We both know you can’t beat me in a fight right now, so don’t even fuck around. Look at you, you’re like a fuckin’ twig—go sit the fuck down. And give me back my damn gun on the way.”

Dick turned, brows furrowed. 

“Stop playacting,” Jason said. “I probably should’ve guessed, but it’s six in the fucking morning, cut me some slack. I know that look. I used to see it in the mirror. Move your ass. I will stab you if you don’t.”

_ Sometimes when it's late and I think about the blood on my hands I still see that look. _

Dick turned, but he didn’t move towards Jason. He looked mildly irritated. “Are you seriously choosing the most inconvenient moment to have both a brain and a heart?”

“Very funny,” Jason said. He hated the way his voice shook. Maybe Dick wouldn't hear it. “Seriously, the gun. Or I will stab you, and then I will stitch you up, and then I will hand you giftwrapped to Batman and your freaky girlfriend personally, without even trying to help you.”

Dick snorted. “You let me walk out of this door,” he said, “and I don’t bother you again. Ever. Think about how much less you’ll get your ass kicked.”

Jason unsheathed the knife at his hip, the wickedly curved one. “Move—your _ —ass.” _

Dick handed him the gun. “Fuck you,” he snarled. 

Jason snatched it and tucked it back in his waistband, and he flipped the knife so it was downwards in his fist and prepared for use. “I have a couch. You’re going to sit on it. And then I’m going to tell you that you are a colossal fucking idiot, and if your actual, genuine plan was to get a gun from me and then blow your brains out, you’re even dumber than I thought. Batman's vague tolerance of me will run the fuck out the second he knows I am semi-responsible for Big Bird's suicide, and that just doesn't work for me. Sucks to suck, loser." 

Dick stalked down the hall. “Leather couches,” he commented, acidly, when he arrived at the doorway to the living room.

“Easier to clean blood off of, now park your ass on said couch.” 

Dick disappeared into the living room, which Jason could at least be sure had no obvious deadly weapons lounging about, because he had hidden everything in preparation for Horace—so Jason ducked into the kitchen and took out a plastic container of his leftover ravioli from the fridge and a fork. He shoved it at Dick, who eyed it suspiciously.

“Why the fuck would I poison it when I literally just kept you from walking out of my door to off yourself, dumbass," Jason snapped.

Dick took the container cautiously, stabbed a ravioli, and then raised it to look at it. “Why are you giving me food,” he said. 

_ Because you'd be lucky to hit a hundred and thirty-five pounds right about now and that scares the shit out of me, _ Jason thought. 

“You are not really engaging with reality, are you,” Jason said. He settled on the loveseat across from the couch, glaring as Dick pondered the ravioli and then set the container aside. “What, is my cooking not good enough for you?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I sincerely doubt that, now eat the goddamn ravioli or I will shove it down your throat.”

Dick’s glance was cutting. “You haven’t given a damn about any of us since you were sixteen. I doubt you ever gave a damn about me, actually." 

The rage rumbling in Jason’s chest crawled up through his throat, and he hissed, “That’s what you’d fucking like to think, huh? I  _ know _ you failed me as a brother. I  _ wanted _ to be your kid brother, you infinite, cocksucking dickweasel. Being your brother? Fucking sucked royal ass  _ because _ I gave a damn."

Dick’s expression crumpled, and Jason leaned back. “Not the time, probably,” he said. “Not the, uh—think about the good things?" 

“And I bet that’s what you do.”

A jab, a jab at the chink in Jason's armor. He couldn't bluff his way out of the days where he stepped back and looked at his life and found it gray, and desolate, and blood-soaked. When he was picking brain matter out of the grooves of his gloves after beating someone to death it came to him, the old urge. Then he thought of Bruce's house filled with people he loved more than he'd ever loved Jason, and the jealousy spurred him forward.

“Actually, I murder people,” Jason said, and it was not a lie. “When I feel that low I like to murder a few assholes, and then I remember that life is actually made of sunshine. I throw knives at a picture of Bruce. I have fun.”

Dick’s eyebrows crawled to his hairline. “You are a psychopath.”

“Probably a fair judgement. Eat the fucking ravioli.”

Jason waited until Dick had finished eating, and then Dick leaned back, hands over his stomach, leaving the half-empty container sitting on the couch next to him. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

“You ate half a normal portion, shut up.”

“You’re such a dick,” Dick murmured. The heaviness of the pasta seemed to knock him out, because he was breathing deeply within a few minutes—for Dick to fall asleep around Jason, it must’ve been days since he’d last slept. It wasn't a sign of trust. It was his body giving out beneath him. Jason picked up the ravioli container and dumped it in the kitchen sink and, after a moment, tossed a blanket over Dick’s shoulders, and then texted Horace to cancel the delivery. Horace yelled at him, because he'd been halfway there, so Jason wired him an extra three hundred dollars for the inconvenience. He was feeling generous. Then he cleaned out the bathroom of weapons and dangerous chemicals, storing it all in the attic, which took roughly an hour. Dick needed maybe thirty four more hours of sleep by the looks  of it, but Jason's generosity had run out, and the ache of Dick's presence nearby when Dick wasn't beating the shit out of him was getting too much for Jason to handle.

“Fuck,” Dick breathed, when his eyes fluttered open.

“What a way to start the day.”

Dick sneered. “It’s a natural reaction to seeing your ugly mug.”

“This ugly mug gets all the tail, let me tell you. Men love me. Yours, however, needs a fucking shower. I’m not gonna sit in the bathroom with you, but you’re also not gonna get lucky, trust me. Take a shower. I have really nice conditioner. Don't use it all, you selfish prick. Then I’m gonna cut your stupid hair to an acceptable length and shave that raccoon off of your face.”

Dick scowled. “Why are you doing this.”

Jason stalled. His heart thrummed against his sternum. “Because you need it,” he said, finally, and then he thrust a towel and a washcloth at Dick and all but threw him into the bathroom. It was nothing less than a forty minute shower, which annoyed Jason to no end, because all he could think about was the shame of that  _ because you need it.  _

“Your clothes are dumb and they smell like cheap cologne,” Dick shouted through the door, which Jason supposed was his way of saying  _ I’m dressed. _ It was the loudest he'd been all morning. Jason swung open the door and then, belatedly, remembered his broken hot water heater. 

“You took a forty minute cold shower,” Jason said, disbelievingly. “You are a menace to society. People like you shouldn't exist." 

“I believe it.”

“The banter is less fun,” Jason said, bending to look under the sink for his clippers, “if you agree with it in a self-deprecating way. It takes the fucking mood down a notch. Take your towel with you, we’re getting rid of that fucking beard.”

Dick huffed. “Since when are you a stylist.”

“I do my own hair. Drug kingpins can’t walk into salons and ask for haircuts, really, it just gets awkward.”

Dick looked oddly thoughtful, and then he said, “How do you get your groceries? Since you cook." 

“I pay a guy to deliver them.”

Dick hummed, and then Jason led him to the kitchen, where he had pulled a stool out from under the breakfast bar specifically for this. He wrapped the damp towel around Dick’s shoulders and then made quick work of the beard and the extra length of hair—he left a layer of fashionable stubble over Dick’s jaw, and Jason told himself it was because he was cutting corners to get Dick out of his house faster. But the truth was that Jason had balked when he'd started to see how gaunt Dick's face truly was, and had decided against a clean shave. 

"You almost look like a human again," Jason said. "Which means I'm prepared to get you the fuck out of my house. You have options. Don't get so excited, you are not, at any opportunity, going to get to kill yourself. Like I said, sucks to suck. Would love to see you go, personally, but it's not happening. Your options are, one, I call Bruce." 

Dick recoiled. "No," he said, and it was more like a gasp. "No—no, he can't. He can't. I won't. Not him. I can't disappoint him."

"He's not going to be disappointed, cockbreath. You're his precious Big Bird." 

Dick shuddered. "No." 

"Okay," Jason continued. "Option two is freaky girlfriend." 

"That is actually worse than option one." 

Jason shrugged. "You're right, she scares me. Option three, I call Red Robin. Which will be awkward for me, because I almost beat him to death that one time." 

"All of these options are bad." 

Jason tapped the area right over the scar on Dick's head. "Yeah, well, next time, try not ruining my morning with you being fucking suicidal." 

"Option four," Dick said, "I go back to the Manor, you shut your trap, and we never bring this embarrassing mess up again." 

"Not an option. I will stab you if you try." 

"Not a dealbreaker, Jay." 

Jason poked him in the head. "Choose. Do it fast, I want to wash my hands of this." 

"I'll call Babs," Dick said.

Jason went to a kitchen drawer and pulled out a burner phone from a stack of fifty, pressed the emergency call button, and held it out to Dick. "Type in the number." 

Dick didn't look angry. He looked terrified, pale as a ghost and his eyes slithering about the room. "Don't," he mumbled. "I'll leave. I won't do anything. Don't do this. I can't—I can't fail her."

Jason's heart twisted. "You know," he said, "I've been where you are. Not exactly, but, head trauma, and then invasive surgery on top of that. Did you ever read the complications list for either of those things? I know for a fact depression is one. You didn't fail anyone or anything. It's like having a fever when you've got the flu, just, uh, infinitely more suck." 

Dick raised a hand, and typed in the number. Jason sent him off to the living room, and he slunk away like a wounded dog, and then Jason crossed to the bathroom. He shut the door and leaned against the counter and pressed the green call button.

"Hood," she said. Her voice was smooth, business-like. 

"Fuck you, it was going to be a surprise. How do you do that?" 

"I'm Oracle," she said, blankly. "What do you want." 

"I want to tell you a story." 

She coughed. "You're taking up time I don't have to allocate to you, Hood." 

"Man, and I wanted to tell you the story of how I gave Dick Grayson a haircut and a shave in my kitchen today, but since you're being a real bitch I think I'll just keep it to myself." 

"You  _ what?"  _

"I'd ask you to sit down, but, well."

"Shut the hell up," she snarled, "and give me your address."

"Nineteen thirty-nine Aparo Road, the yellow townhouse, next to the park. Move your ass. Your boy wants to off himself." 

_ "What," _ she said. "I swear to God, if you are trying to make some kind of joke—" 

"He came to me for a gun. I'm assuming he can't buy anything because he's out of cash and you're watching his bank accounts like a hawk, huh? And he's too much of a pussy to rob anyone. So he came to get a gun from the one guy who might actually give negative shits about goddamn Nightwing, but unfortunately for him, I don't want Batman to punch me in the face for being semi-responsible for his favorite kid's murder." 

"Watch him like a hawk," Barbara ordered. "Or I will break you in half." 

"I've threatened to stab him if he tries anything, don't worry." 

"There isn't a part of me that doesn't loathe you right now." 

—

Barbara rolled into the room a half hour after Jason came out of the bathroom and loudly announced  _ I'm finally getting rid of you, you inconsiderate fuck. _

Dick hadn't seen her for a month. It was only a month. She looked no different, but he drank in the sight of her and it was like the first breath of clean air after having your head held under the water. Dick remembered blunt nails digging into his scalp, the numbness of the roots of his hair as hands fisted in it and pushed his head under the water, over and over. The memory of being waterboarded made his greeting smile to her feel more than a little brittle. 

"Hi," he said. 

Her throat bobbed. "Hi," she said. "Do you have anything you need to bring with you?" 

Dick shook his head. 

"Your clothes, idiot," Jason said. "I'll wash them. They smell like a distillery, it's disgusting." 

"You, keep your mouth shut," Barbara said, gesturing at Jason. "C'mon. We need to get out of here." 

Dick knew she wouldn't say anything in front of Jason—she hated him, detested his existence, refused to call him by his name. She had loved the boy Jason had been too much. She had tutored him, trained him; Dick hadn't been close to Jason, but Barbara certainly had. But it left him feeling cold, her blank expression.

Dick followed her to the foyer. He turned to Jason—huge, imposing, deadly Jason. The scar through his eyebrow, the bruised and twisted knuckles. "Remember what I said. I am—I'm sorry. Just give him a chance. The thing he wants in this world most is you." 

Jason waved a hand. "Then he can stuff it." 

Dick's mouth quirked downward. "Yeah. Yeah." He turned to follow Barbara through the doorway.

Jason coughed, behind him, and then Dick was spun around and wrapped into a hug.

It startled Dick so badly he almost kneed Jason in the balls by instinct. Eventually he raised his arms and patted Jason on the back.

Jason released him after a tight squeeze, and then slammed the door in Dick's face. It was probably the closest the two of them would ever get, when Dick wasn’t kicking his ass.

"Dick," Barbara called. She had gone down the ramp—curious, that Jason's house was wheelchair accessible—and was by the car. Her expression was unreadable.

Dick shook his head. "Jay's a weird dude." 

She didn't respond. Bruce had renovated a car for her to use back when she was first shot—a big blue van. Bruce had offered to adjust the renovations to a newer model, over the years, but she'd never accepted. She argued that the soccer mom van suited her. 

They were down the street, Barbara’s hands fluttering over the controls, Dick staring resolutely out of the window before she spoke. 

“Was it this bad before you disappeared,” she asked. Her voice was not soft. It was almost brutal, in its loudness, in the way it drove into Dick’s solar plexus like a pickaxe. 

“I didn’t,” and then his voice faltered, but he swallowed, remembered Jason’s _ you didn’t fail anything or anyone, _ and said, “I was thinking. I didn’t want Bruce to, uh, find me, after.”

The brake slammed and Dick was pitched forward until he almost hit the dashboard. Barbara cut the wheel, and then they were in the parking lot of a Big Belly Burger, sliding into a parking space—but all of this was secondary to the wet, thick sound of Barbara’s quiet, “Oh my  _ God.” _

Dick stared at the dusky, off-white toes of his sneakers. In truth, he hadn’t just been worried about Bruce—although he knew Bruce could not possibly survive finding and cradling the corpse of another son, it was Damian that Dick had worried over, too. Best to disappear, fake a car accident somewhere remote. It’d take them months to find him, if Dick did his job properly, if Dick could follow through. He couldn’t. He’d spent most of the last month driving, telling himself  _ do it do it now do it, _ and never getting it done. He thought he’d be less hesitant with a gun in his hand.

“Can you look at me,” she said, and it was only now that her voice was soft. “Dick. Please.”

Dick hazarded a glance at her—it was, probably, the least she deserved. She was crying, now, her cheeks shining and wet and flushed red beneath the tears. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

She reached out and folded her hand in his. “Let me take a few guesses,” she said.

Dick squirmed. He fought the urge to hurl all the food in his stomach into the footwell. “Sure,” he said, tightly.

“Your balance is still off, and it’s taking all of your training to compensate for that.”

Dick’s mouth dipped into a frown. “Okay,” he said. 

“I can tell,” she said. The words felt like a hot knife sliding into his gut—Jason had brandished a wicked knife at him, the signature curvy one he favored, and Barbara’s words felt like every damnable inch of that knife was in his gut and twisting.

She squeezed his hand, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles. “Dick,” she said, “it’s going to be okay. It’ll come back.”

“You don’t know that,” he snapped. “I don’t—I don’t—I don’t move like I should. I don’t, I don’t feel like this body is mine at all, I can’t balance, I can’t focus, and if I can’t do that how the  _ fuck _ am I supposed to work, Babs.”

“I’ve been there,” she said. “And it gets better. It does. There’s more to you than just Nightwing. I know that, because there was more to me than just Batgirl. And you’re forgetting that you’re still healing, Dick, it’s only been a couple months since you were shot in the head. That’s the longest physical recovery you’ve ever faced. You need to give yourself time.”

Dick slammed the dashboard with his palm. “I don’t have any  _ fucking _ time!” he roared. 

Her grip on his hand was steady. It didn’t tighten, it didn’t slacken; it was easy, firm yet soft, and it grounded him, pulled the rage in him back. 

“You do,” she said. “You have a network of people who are going to support you no matter what. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, and in fact I will say the opposite, and tell you that it’s just uphill from here. It’s doable. But you need your family.”

“I’m sick and tired of ‘uphill from here.’ For fucking once, I’d like something to be easy.”

She brought his hand to her mouth and pressed a kiss to his second knuckle. “Good things don’t come easy. And Dick, you’re not just good. You’re the best.”

“This is a terrible time for a pick-up line.”

“It’s not,” she said.

With his free hand he scrubbed at his eyes. “I’ve fucked up so much, Babs.” His mind wandered briefly to Catalina, the rain, her fingers trailing down his chest and the smell of her sweat—he ground his teeth, and Barbara’s thumb rubbed over his knuckles again. 

“Maybe you need to talk about it. I would listen, if that’s what you needed. You’ve been through a lot. Keeping that bottled up isn’t helping you, right now.”

Dick’s eyes fell to his lap, to his free hand. He flexed his fingers. “I don’t know,” he said. 

“If you ever want to,” she said, “you know where to find me. Can I change the subject?”

_ She’s going to break up with you, _ came the wild, panicked thought, but he croaked out, “Yes,” anyway.

“Look at me,” she said.

Her green eyes were quick, darting over his face. “First thing, I love you. If I didn’t know any better I would say you hung the sun and moon. You are one of the most compassionate, caring people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. Second thing, I love you no matter how awful you think you are. Third thing, this is not your fault. You did nothing wrong. You are experiencing a complication in your recovery from a TBI. This is a documented thing. You are not especially bad, wrong, or a failure. Do you have all that?”

Dick jerked his head. “I’ll say sure.”

“I’ll tell you all of that as often as you need. Next thing, we need a gameplan. There are options for treating this. But first you need to talk to Bruce, and you need to tell him everything. And I mean everything—where you went, what you did, how you felt. How you’re feeling now. He’s going to be overprotective for a long time. You need every ounce of that you can get, so you’re just going to have to deal with it. Then he’s probably going to have you talk to Leslie.”

“I don’t want to be on any medication, and I know that’s what she’s going to say,” Dick said. “I’m not—I’m not crazy.”

Barbara’s mouth thinned. “Be careful who you call crazy, Dick. I was on antidepressants while I was recovering.”

Dick waved his hand. “That’s one thing, but, uh, permanently, that’s—I don’t need that. I’m not that bad.”

“You do realize your dad takes up to four medications daily, and will for the rest of his life, for this kind of thing,” Barbara said, flatly. “Don’t let on that you know, by the way. My access to his medical records isn’t exactly, uh, allowed.”

“Holy  _ shit, _ Babs, have you  _ ever _ heard of privacy.”

She shrugged. “It felt necessary at the time. But, seriously. That’s a belief you need to set aside before we proceed.”

Dick worked his jaw. “Okay,” he said. 

“Now I’m going to ask about the drinking,” she said. “How much of that has there been?”

Dick scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Just, uh, last night.”

“Good,” she said. “One more thing, I swear. Are you up to talking to Bruce today, or should I delay until tomorrow?”

“Can it be never.”

“No,” she said. 

“Delay it,” Dick muttered. He couldn’t handle the hidden disappointment in Bruce’s blank stare, not now, not today.

Barbara nodded, a quick jerking motion of her head that bounced her chin-length hair, and then she reversed out of the parking lot. 

It wasn’t until he was actually walking through the door of Barbara’s apartment that he sank to his knees, chest shuddering with quiet, breathy sobs. She led him to the couch and bundled him up and then lifted herself out of her chair to sit beside him, and he curled up on her lap and whispered  _ I’m sorry _ while she ran gentle fingers through his hair. He fell asleep there, and when he woke it was dark as pitch outside and she was still there, still holding him, looking down at him with bright eyes. She bent her head and pressed a kiss to his head, right over the scar where he’d been shot.

“Go back to sleep, baby,” she said. 

“M’ keeping you awake.”

What she didn’t say was  _ I won’t go to sleep when I’m the only one watching over you, _ but Dick heard it, loud and clear, through her silence. 

“It’s almost morning,” she said, eventually. “I’m going to give you three hours. And then I’m calling Bruce.”

Dick shifted so he was settled more comfortably against her. “M’going back to sleep. Wake me up when he’s almost here.”

Her fingers played with a lock of his hair. It was the last thing he remembered before sinking back into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> We love a Dickbabs we love to see it


End file.
